Meet The Hungarian Prince :

Miss_Nash:“Why do you look so familiar? Are you a former club lover by chance?” –My hilariously charming, opening message to this Hungarian Prince.

Turns out, we did meet a year ago after I had drunkenly slimed up to him, the only Euro in a suit, at the bar. I vaguely remember pretending to be interested in investments and his gracious invitation to sleep over, which I declined, for the record. Luckily fate determined that we were destined for disaster and allowed us to cross paths again!

We texted back and forth for a couple weeks, and by “texted” I mean “shamelessly swapped douchey selfies” and after whining about how I hadn’t been to the Eatery, he offered to take me. Since it’s not in my nature to decline free dinner or a Euro Douche, I happily accepted.

He picked me up at Waterfront Station and we drove to Kitsilano. I learned that he played soccer, ”didn’t drink”, and was FOB from Hungary at 16, hence his subtle accent. He was cute but arrogant, and like his priors, wore a leather jacket that matched his lowered Civic–Oh, but he was getting a Beamer soon! I just quietly shook my head at myself for being so predictable. But what’s a hungry Nez to do?

They have a DJ, they have fun, papier maché octopi hanging from the ceiling, they have delicious fusion sushi hybrids, AND the ambience is dark enough to hide any look of disdain or subtle eye roll when your date is being douchetacular.

The Hungarian Prince and I didn’t have a lot in common except for our taste in Samsung Galaxy Smartphones. It was when he was showing me his “really neat” stock exchange app that a text scrolled across the top of our matching screens.

“But I thought you wanted me to be your girlfriend??????”

Now I’m not a confrontational person and I didn’t particularly care, so after an awkward pause, I followed his lead and pretended not to see it. As the night progressed, he bragged about how much money he made, declared how most graphic designers are broke losers, (at this time I was still in the debating phase of whether to go back to school or not.) and complained about how fattening our meal was. #allthedemerits!

For someone who claimed he didn’t drink, he kept the martinis flowing and if you know Nez, you know beer is much preferred. It was after I declined the 8th round that he generously suggested a night cap at his place. With a belly full of sushi sucking up any trace of alcohol, I obliged. I wanted to prove to him (and myself) that I could resist his charming demeanor and would participate in what was literally said and not what was slyly implied.

After a quick tour of his tiny bachelor pad (lingering meaningfully near his bedroom), we enjoyed a White Russian as he booted up his laptop to show me something entertaining on the YouTubez.

“Oh phewf!” He sighed, relieved. “I thought some porn might pop up.”

Queue another awkward pause:

“Yeah, I like the kinky stuff,” he continued and I slowly began to inch away from him on the couch. “You know, golden showers, BDSM, buka—“

“OK, WOULD YOU LOOK AT THE TIME!” I faked the ol’ yawn and stretch before shit got real. “I should get going before the last skytrain!”

Of course I couldn’t escape without him making one last attempt to maul me in the elevator as he showed me out like the faux gentleman he was! I wiped my face of his saliva (thankful to avoid any other bodily fluids…) and walked briskly back to the station.